this isn't going to be the best piece of writing. in fact, i didn't get much sleep last night because i was (drunk) rambling to a boy a million miles away about how i'm sorry that i told him i love him and sleeping on this guy's couch without pants because i either puked or spilled beer on them. and i feel how jack kerouac felt, that he was a mess and sleep deprived and probably still a little tipsy, woke up this morning too early and had to walk all the way across his shit house to use the bathroom, couldn't go back to sleep after that.

this is how i get when it's too early to text someone to see what they're doing today or send some phone signals to that boy in the far far south telling him how i can't be held responsible for my misplaced consonats because i smoked all my menthol cigarettes and couldn't find something much more entertaining other than that couch where i watched the wackness with an acid burnout that held my hand, smelled faintly of a dumpster, and who i was mentally begging to just. kiss. me.

i lost a lot not so long ago to someone i used to eat mushrooms with and talk about driving to california. they left with the promise of coming back, never did and still hasn't, and i'm sure they won't. i used to call them my sunshine, and they're gone, but the plants still grow on a cloudy day, you know. but right now. i smell toast and my room's too cold even though it's the middle of september, and i want a pair of woolen socks because i don't feel like i'm growing anymore. i feel like i'm trapped in some loamy soil and that there's a lot of light shining in from the windows and i can see the church across the street but i feel like i have no natural instinct to spring from the underground, and that's what's holding me back, you know. that i need to be plucked from the soil by very precise hands, or i need it brushed away from over top of me so i can grow and be a bean plant that little kids preform experiments with the ph of the soil on, not a failed science project that leaves you wondering why didn't you just do the baking soda and vinegar volcano that everyone else fucking does. 

but that's where it ends, right up when my fingers are falling into even more esoteric analogies about life and bean plants because i know if i went on that i wouldn't be making sense. because really i hate everybody and everything for little tiny microscopic things that you'd never guess, like the way they laugh or the fact that theyre incredible, intelligent people but all their friends are dumbasses, or that they wear nice shoes but their feet are too big. but the thing is that everyone i just want to sit down and talk to, not about me, not like this, but get drunk and smoke cigarettes in my garage all night and ask them how they feel about themselves. so i don't know what that makes me, but on your birthday i coughed up toothpaste all over my mirror and my throat bled and i want to sit on the floor of my shower until the water runs cold, or sleep all day or get drunk and tell people's future. 

but before i reach an exhasperated claim and shout at the top of my lungs into my keyboard that i'm some sick sychophant's child of anti-seduction, the reverse card of the hanged man, where i'm rightside up when i should be upsidedown, i'm going to fall asleep. and it's different now, because it used to be that i didn't care what waited for me when i opened my eyes again, but now i just don't want to wake up this tired.